


More Than Just Tea

by arlenejp, Enterthetadpole



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Fluff, John and Sherlock being very stereotypical Brits, M/M, Tea, love admissions, with a tiny bit of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-22
Updated: 2020-01-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:34:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22366468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arlenejp/pseuds/arlenejp, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enterthetadpole/pseuds/Enterthetadpole
Summary: John is exhausted. Sherlock wants tea. However, there's more. There's ALWAYS more...
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 29
Kudos: 53





	More Than Just Tea

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are always welcome! Thank you for reading! Written with user arlenejp.

_Shit! Fuck!_

After howling babies, cranky old men, and a stack of papers I had to sign, I step outside the door to feel the drenching, cats and dogs, sogginess wetness of rain. And, of course, no taxis in sight  
Now, if my partner were here, he'd snag the only empty taxi in England! But no, leave it to him to be sitting, reading, by a comfy fucking fire while I get soaked to my skin. Ah well, might as well make a run for it. The tube is only down the street, and placing my medical bag over my head; I leap into the fray. Down the steps, shaking off the drips, I swipe my card and wait for the next train. Large drops are still falling when I enter Baker Street and sprint to our flat.   
Opening the door, and sure as shit, Sherlock is sat by the warmth of the fire. I take his blue scarf off the coat hanger and wipe my soaking hair, aching for a reason to ‘have a fight’.  
I look at him like his head is on upside down. He stares back at me with equal confusion.   
"You'll what?" I ask, and he narrows his silver-blue eyes.  
"I said that I'd make tea, John. For God's sake, keep up." He walks over to the kitchen in only a few strides.  
Curse him and his long legs. Still in his fucking dressing gown and bare feet, as I stand still dripping on the carpet.  
"When in the hell have you ever made tea?"  
He shrugs, and I hear the cabinets open. From where I stand, I can see him pull out two cups and the kettle. His dark curls bounce as he moves about, making a point not to give me eye contact again.   
"I haven't, obviously. But I've observed you make it enough to get the idea. It's not anything exceptionally difficult, John. A child can do it." His head pokes out of the kitchen, " John, you're dripping on the floor."  
"Huh, yeah, "looking at the small pool forming around my shoes.  
"John. You're--dripping--on--the floor," his staccato delivery and low voice moving me quickly.  
"Yea, right," and rush up the stairs to drop my clothes on the bathroom floor. A towel wrapped around me, I find my PJ bottoms and an old shirt in my bedroom. Barefoot I rush down the steps only to slip on a wet tread and fall, landing on my backside.  
"Are you okay?" he runs over, his hands leaving emotional marks where they touch.  
Swatting to remove those hands from my body, I mumble, "go make tea."  
As I stand and stare up at his face, at his formidable eyes, I stop. Forget whatever I was about to do.   
He wavers, "hmm, tea. Right. I'll go," doing a turnabout and dashes to the kitchen. Still stuck in the same spot, I can't for the effing life of me remember what I was about. Yes! I was going to watch this miracle of Sherlock making tea.   
Walking into the kitchen, he's got the water boiling, but no tea, either in the pot or on the counter.  
"Where's the tea? You know? You can't make tea without the tea?"  
"John, you are babbling."  
Babbling? Of course, I am babbling on. I'm trying to watch an English man in his late thirties make tea for what I'm sure is the first time. It takes all that I can to not say this out loud. As usual, Sherlock is staring at me as if he can read all of my thoughts. Maybe all this time, he really can.   
"The tea is in the microwave, of course."  
I blink. Then I blink again. "You're microwaving the tea?"  
"Yes. Tea can be made in the microwave just as well as the kettle, John. Do keep up."  
I groan and place my head in my hands. The headache has already begun at my temples.   
"That's true, Sherlock...but didn't you just cook six severed fingers in that same microwave not less than a few hours ago?"  
Sherlock frowns. "I don't connect how that is relevant to the present situation."  
Sighing, knowing I’ll never win this conversation, I grab the cups and saucers from the cupboard and place them on the now cleaned off table.  
In front of me, a miracle is happening!  
Sherlock never ever does tea. Never, ever cleans the table of his various test tubes, flask, and other rubble he’s working with.  
He sits down, grasps the cup in both hands, studies the tea, and with his deep croaky voice, says, “Doctor Watson. I cannot abide by having you live with me anymore. Therefore I have secured a small flat for you. And to ease your way, I have paid the rent for a year.”  
My body stiffens, turns to an iceberg, cold, stiff, and unmoving. I don't have a mind palace, but I still try to recall what I may have done to have Sherlock kicking me out of the flat. It's not like I have been a bad flatmate. We fight sometimes, sure. There are days that I wish that I have more privacy for when I have a female visitor, but we had discussed all of that. Or so I thought.   
"Sherlock," I say finally, looking over at him sitting at the table. His face is set in a frown as he looks at his teacup. "What's all this about?"  
His legs crossed, he's leaning back in the chair, and I know there's a whole lot more to this than he's saying.  
"Sherlock, we're not leaving this table until you explain," leaning back myself. "God damn it, man, look me in the eye and tell me what this is about?" my anger growing.  
Not a muscle moves. His eyes are on the teacup in front of him. Banging my fist on the table, without my realizing it, I growl, "Sherlooocck, in all the heavens above, what the fuck is wrong?"  
Not a muscle moves. He doesn't jump at the loudness of my voice. If I rise from this table, I'll never know the why.   
"Fuck sake, Sherlock. Say something. Curse at me. Maybe hit me. But give me a reason."  
Still nothing. He is just sitting there. His expression blank, but his eyes are a silver-blue thunderstorm of emotions that is too much for me to interpret. Not directed at me, but at the teacup. He won't even glance up at all.  
"Fine," I say, hating that my voice cracks. "Then I guess we'll be sitting here for a while."  
The silence is everywhere. Creeping through the house like someone has died, but their death isn't known yet. I deserve an explanation. What the fuck happened to ‘You're my conductor of light’? That I make him right. Were those all just lines fed to pull me in?   
"Is this have something to do with the tea? You keep bloody looking at it."  
Nothing. My jaw tightens as I try and fail not to grunt in anger.   
"Sherlock!"  
“ No, John. Give me a reason. Why are you still here? When presented with an unsolvable issue, you grab your jacket and walk out. What reason of logic is holding you in your seat?” This misleading declaration I've thrown at John is backfiring. It is about at this moment that I calculated John would be pacing the floor, rambling on in half-sentences about his dedication, his willingness to 'put up with my eccentricities.' And--more. Am I amiss? Have I again misread emotions? I stare at him. I'm fairly sure my mouth is open. Not comically wide but enough to get the point across as to how mental I think he's being.   
"So, this is some sort of experiment, is it? Another attempt to make me choose the right answer for a test that I have no idea as to the topic?"  
He says nothing, but his face no longer looks blank. Now there is a shadow of something more. Fear? Confusion? Part of me wants to pause so that he can feel less wrong-footed. However, a bigger part of me needs to shout at him.   
"What will it take for you to stop treating me like some sort of strange collection of data? And yes, to answer your last question first, you are bloody well misreading emotions again!"  
"John, I--. No, you are not an experiment. Or rather," twisting the fork in his fingers, "I didn't intend--, well maybe--."  
Recognition blooms in my brain. "Wait! There is no other flat!" Standing up, I throw a cup to the floor. "Well, Mister Big Shot detective, deduce this! I'm going to leave. Going to find a flat. And going to get out of your life! You, bumbling, ridiculous, half-human--," my breath running out, my words dissolve into nothingness. All I hear is the tick of the clock, and I'm stuck in this situation. Neither staying nor leaving.  
"John, help me--help me."  
I take my eyes off the broken pieces to stare wide-eyed at the man. What the fuck did he just say?  
"Help you? How?"  
Sherlock blinks up at me. Definitely confusion this time. It looks odd on his features. As if his muscles aren't used to arranging themselves into anything other than stoic pomposity or general smugness. I step towards him, but slowly. As if he's some sort of wounded animal that might flee before I can help him.  
"There is another flat," Sherlock says, and there is a faint sensation of his usual haughtiness. "But it's not specifically to have anyone move into. Just there in case...you come to the same conclusion that everyone does."  
I tilt my head, as if that may actually help me to understand. "And what conclusion is that?"  
Then he rolls his eyes in such a Sherlockian way that I feel a renewed bubble of anger.   
"That our association will be only ever that. An association. You go with me to crime scenes, say I'm brilliant at precisely the correct moments, and then we get Chinese take away to eat while I watch you destroy your mind with those horrid reality baking shows."  
I laugh because even in these moments, he's able to insult me so cleverly.   
"What's so awful about our, to use your word, association? Most other people would call that a friendship."  
"Friendship? But, my good doctor, most people don't consider our togetherness as friendship."  
"Fuck them. You know--," Sherlock's raised hand stops me from uttering that same old statement-"Not gay."  
Stuck to where I'm standing, I wonder, is he suggesting something else? Is he, the ' I'm married to my work' really married to his work? His eyes, those eyes that could bore into an elephant's skin, are soft. Careful, Look closer. Is it begging, in the turn of his head, the quiet of his insult? "Help you, how?" I repeat. But this time, this time--. Is there more than friendship in his ever-changing eyes?  
Again, silence, and it's getting more and more infuriating at the moment. This is what he does. Throws something poignant and real out into the atmosphere. Enough for me to see, but not to grab onto.  
"I don't understand how to do this, John. But I want to."  
The clock ticks a few more seconds. I inhale and exhale.   
"What 'this' are you speaking about?" I ask.  
Then Sherlock gestures a slender hand between the two of us. "That I do want more than what we have," Sherlock continues. "Friendship is fine. More than most people have given, but I do believe that I want more. With you. I just have no idea what more that entails."  
"The only more that I can guess is--. So, I have to ask you to elaborate. More what? Stop beating around the bush, Sherlock. " My heart is hammering so hard I'm sure he can hear its beat. Deciding to lean into it, I reach over, my fingers tentatively touch his palm. He jumps but doesn't withdraw.   
"Your pulse, John is beyond racing," his eyes still focused on my face.  
"Is this the 'this' you speak of? A closeness of affection that involves physical contact?" I swallow hard, then shift my gaze from his eyes to the place where we are touching each other. His skin is dry but warm. His expression regarding me as of I'm some sort of fascinating hypothesis.   
"I'm not sure that I can answer that question," I reply. "Not when there are so many other thoughts going around in my head."  
He blinks at that, and his grip tightens. "Thoughts are meant to be spoken aloud, aren't they, John?"  
"Yes, Sherlock," and gulping down any leftover hesitancy, "I will--" gripping his hand," state that I like you. Like you lots. I mean, if you were to--well, you know, again, I would be lost. I couldn't take it. Would take that pistol out of the drawer--."  
"John, stop," almost a shout, "stop right now. I can't tolerate the thought of you--." And he withdraws his hand, and with a dark stare, foreboding in its depth, "I want my doctor. Can't lose my closest friend, my companion, my--my--," his head sinks to his chest, and tears descend.   
My Sherlock is crying. I choke up.  
"You have me sounding like you think I'm made of glass," I mumble. "And I know that you've seen me in difficult spots, but that's part of what makes us work. Makes us fit so well. Difficult spots are always managed." I lick my lips, and then it's painfully quiet again.  
"I want to stay here or wherever we end up because I need to be with you, John. "Sherlock's gaze narrows, watery, and desperate.  
It's too many emotions at once, and I feel like I may break into pieces just like the teacup still littering the floor. "Sherlock, your words are dangerous," I admit, "Because they can be interpreted in more than one way. Do you understand that?"  
He nods, then almost appears to reconsider what he just said. My heart drops, and I am suddenly cold.  
"All evidence and reasonable data point to me being in love with you, John Watson."  
"In love? As in--," the light goes on, and all pretense is gone.  
"Sherlock Holmes, you are an absolute idiot. Couldn't you have said--? No, I guess not because I could never have voiced it aloud." Taking a deep breath, knowing that this is it--the moment I've waited for-- I announce--"Sherlock, my friend. I love you. Love you with every breath I take from here on," kissing the hand that reaches out. A cup of tea be damned!


End file.
